Recently, I was sweating profusely in hot yoga, and while staring at my reflection, it occurred to me that I can live with this. By "this", I was referring to my body: the back fat, the birdlike chest, the soft sausage arms, the knocked knees covered in scars.
I have been skinnier in my life, but it required a level of dietary vigilance and/or physical exertion that took my attention away from enjoying the fruits of my labour. Skinny came hand-in-hand with an unrelenting obsession with food, constant monitoring of my hunger level, and loads of laundry.
It makes sense to simply accept my body as is, given that I exercise a few times a week, I eat healthy, and my body has not betrayed me with malfunction or disease in any major way. And it's a relief not to be my own worst enemy, every morning.
Of course, admitting a problem is not the end of it. I may be coaxed back into borderline anorexia by being called "fatty" or by fluorescent lighting in a swimsuit fitting room. In the meantime, I will enjoy this unfamiliar acceptance of my body, until one of my fellow Thinspiration XXL becomes enviably thin, and dissatisfaction with my body rears its ugly head.
